Wounded Hearts
by Dimfuin
Summary: Faramir and Eowyn have been married for a few months now, but both suffer dark dreams in the night. Can they find strength in each other?
1. Default Chapter

**A/N** Hello again! Ok, I just posted one story today, and people told me to post more, so I am;-) I'm posting more on Faramir and Eowyn, because that's usually what I write on! Enjoy, all of you.

**By the way...**Just wanted to clear something up;-) In my last story, _Until the Stars are All Alight_ one of my reviewers told me that I had a spelling error: except instead of accept. Well (and yes, it is just professional pride that is prompting me to say this;-) I actually didn't write that part, I got it off of councilofelrond.com, in their script section, and I didn't really look at is because I assumed they were grammatically correct. Anyway, the long and short of this is that I'm sorry I didn't catch that. Better luck with this one? Lol;-)

**Disclaimor** See _Until the Stars are All Alight_ (Basically nothing of Tolkiens is mine;-)

**Wounded Hearts**

_By Dimfuin_

He moves slowly towards me, smiling a false smile, his sleepy eyes half open. He slithers across the floor, now and then glancing towards the right or left, but he keeps on coming. I am rooted to the spot, unable to leave the side of my King, and yet unable to abide this thing coming towards us. I know that over the past years it has been him and him alone who has poisoned the King's mind, turning him from a strong ruler into a doddering old man who stays all day hunched over the throne, yet I am powerless to do anything. Eomer, it is true, can ride his horse and take his anger out on the parties of orcs who roam over our land, but seldom indeed it is when I have a chance to leave this city, or even Meduseld, for that matter.

He is so close now I can smell the stench that rises from his garments, and I find myself wondering when he last bathed. His eyes are rimmed with red and he opens his mouth in some semblance of a smile, though I can see his long pale tongue flickering over his teeth. I cannot suppress a shudder, and I quickly turn my attention to straightening the robe that lays on the Kings lap.

A hand touches my arm gently, and again I cannot suppress a shudder. Why am I letting him touch me? But his hand, cold and clammy, moves up my arm to my neck, and I do not stop it. It lingers there for a minute, chilling my very bones, and then comes to rest on my cheek. I lift my eyes slowly, unwilling to look into the eyes of this thing that dares touch me. And yet still I do not shake him off. Why ever not? I am powerless over my own body, and---dare I say it?---I have a certain delight in letting this slime and filth fall for me. My life is a blank white sheet---why should I not allow him to fill a part of it?

"So beautiful is Eowyn, daughter of Theodwyn and Eomund. And yet she seems to be touched by a frost." His honeyed words are like another stench, this one more horrible than the last. I finally look up into his eyes and am rewarded with an emotion that I thought never to see in this man who is like a crawling animal. Lust. I tremble at the sight and suddenly I do not think I can take this anymore. His hand brushes lightly over my cheek and suddenly I snap. Beginning to back away, I say quietly, "Who are you, snake? Why do you follow my footsteps and haunt my paths? I am Eowyn, a daughter of kings! Get away from me!"

He smiles in delight and takes a step forward, his eyes dimming slightly. "Oh, but you will never have the chance to show yourself, daughter of kings," his words make me feel cold, and I curse myself for allowing that. He goes on, the slipperiness coming back. "You are not content, Eowyn. I see it daily. But why does Eomer not?"

I begin to ask the same question for myself and then stop abruptly, breathless. This man has even the power to turn me against my own brother. Surely he is not human at all, but rather some nameless evil disguised in a man's body! I try to turn away, but his eyes, red and bloodshot, hold me. I hit a wall and can back up no more. His voice begins to whisper in my ear, "A gilded cage, Eowyn. That is what your lot in life is, Eowyn. Eowyn! A hutch to trammel some wild thing...Eowyn. Eowyn!"

I am being shaken gently, and my eyes fly open. "Eowyn," whispers a voice in my ear, and a hand is placed gently on my arm. I shudder and scoot away from the voice and touches, fear coursing through me. I will not let that snake touch me again!

"Eowyn, it was a dream, my love. You were dreaming," the soft voice says again, and, bewildered, I realize that it is not Grima Wormtongue's voice in my ear, but that of my husband.

"Faramir?" I ask, looking about me, and arms encircle me and pull me towards a body. I look up into the gray eyes of my beloved. Relief settles like a blanket over me and I lay my head against his chest, tears starting. "Oh Faramir!" I whisper, and he kisses the top of my head.

"Tell me about it," he murmurs, stroking my hair. I gulp.

"I was back in the court of my uncle, standing by his throne. That...that...snake, was there, and he touched me, and I couldn't stop him. I, who slew the Witch-king, was powerless to stop him from caressing me!" I shudder involuntarily again and Faramir's arms tighten. "It was horrible," I go on, eyes shut, and again I see the bloodshot eyes before me, leering and lust-filled. "He began to tell me what my life was like, that I would never be free and that I would spend my years in a gilded cage, unable to prove my lineage."

"But Eowyn, that is not true," the gentle voice of my husband says, "You have proved it. You are happy now." There is an edge of worry in his voice, and I take a deep breath, then turn and look up at his face.

"Yes," I smile faintly, "Yes. He should not hold onto my dreams still, plaguing my nights. Why does he, Faramir?"

Faramir sighs, then places a kiss on my cheek. "I do not know, my love," he says slowly, "But we need not be consumed by it."

"No," I sigh, and then there is silence between us as we stare out into the dark of night in Ithilien, the land of the Moon. I snuggle into my husband's arms, grateful for their warmth from the chill that has crept up my body. I turn, looking deep into his changeable and wise gray eyes. "Kiss me, Faramir," I whisper, and he presses his lips softly upon my own, dispelling both the coldness and the rotten taste left in my mouth---replacing it with a feeling of security and something I would never believe I would posses, a year ago. And that is love.


	2. Faramir

**Another by the way...** Thanks to Frodo Baggins 88 for telling me about the HTML (it really does work so much better;-) And Palindrome Mistress, you'll probably notice that I'm doing basically the same thing with this story as with the last (drawing major comparisons between Faramir and Eowyn). I hope you enjoy it again!

**Chapter Two**

_By Dimfuin_

He moves slowly towards me, his eyes narrowed and his demeanor cold. I stand and wait the oncoming wrath that will shortly fall upon me, squaring my shoulders and looking down. It strikes me, all of a sudden, how long I have been doing this---waiting for my father's anger and rebukes.

As I glance up to see that he is really quite close now, I am struck with a vision of myself when I was quite young, about seven, I should say. My father refused to tell me my crime, yet he berated me endlessly about it. All my life I have known nothing but distaste and scorn from this man whom I really know nothing about.

Other men and boys are not like this, I know. Why, I can see that merely by looking at Boromir and my father. Between them their is a kinship, a love that I have never felt. To me all Denethor has ever meant is bruises---whether physical of mental.

My father has stopped, and I risk a glance upwards, only to see disdain gnawing at his features and his cold eyes. We stand, like this, for some time, no one speaking. The guards shift uneasily, but I do not move. It will come soon enough.

"Why am I given such a worthless son?" hisses my father, at last. I still do not move. "Other men are blessed with obedient, faithful, competent sons who strive to do their every will. Yes, that is the reward of fatherhood, to have a good son. Yet I, Steward of Gondor, have an idiot in place of offspring!"

How long can I bear this? I look up, decided. "Tell me my crime, father," I say softly, "So I can repair it."

I am unprepared for his reaction. With a swift motion he brings his hand down upon my face, his silver ring slicing my cheek. My hand flies up to my face; my eyes turn down.

"Not only that, but an impudent one as well!" Denethor cries, shaking.

I bring my hand down from my cheek slowly, noting the trail of blood on it. "I did not mean to be so, father," I whisper, cursing myself for my lack of courage. On the battle-field, contrary to my father's opinion of me, I feel no fear. But here, facing the wrath of my lord that I do not believe I fully merit, I feel myself somewhat lacking.

"Look at me, Faramir!" Denethor snaps, and I glance quickly up. He utters my name as if it were a curse, a name that he hates and yet he must say out of need. He stares into my eyes (which I know must be clouded over with grief and confusion) with his own cold, bright ones. "At least the Valar have chosen to grace me with one strong son, one that will carry on my name-sake with honor. Why are you not like Boromir?"

Can he really expect me to answer that question? Does he not know the sting of his own words? This man does not understand that saying things like that makes his slaps nothing compared to them. I stare at him levelly for a minute, and then, knowing he is waiting for an answer, say slowly, "Do you wish that I had never been born and made your life miserable, my lord? For I know that is what I wish."

His slap lands on my other cheek, and this time I keep my gaze fixed on the floor.

"My lord?" asks a voice, and I look up swiftly to see Boromir standing betwixt the guards at the door. He is bristling with anger, I notice, yet his voice is calm. "Would you strike your own son?"

Denethor smiles at his eldest son, and I realize that nothing could ever hurt so much as this quick change of moods in my father when he sees his favorite son in the room. But there is a tiny bit of warning in his voice as he replies, "Faramir is learning his lesson, Boromir." Again, I notice the change. He says my name as a curse, just as he did before, but my brother's name he utters with love.

Boromir takes a step into the room. I know my brother well enough that he is searching his mind for an excuse. "My lord, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth awaits you," he manages, glancing at my drawn face. "Will you go to him?"

The Steward glances at me too. "Yes, I will go," he sneers, and then he quickly departs from the room. Boromir walks over, laying a finger on my cheek. "Come," he says softly, placing his arm around my shoulders, "Let's find you a bandage."

I shrug him off, shaking my head. "I'm fine, Boromir." I usually let my brother baby me, but now is not the time. He looks at me in silence for a minute, then nods. With a sigh, he says, "Alright. Come on, little brother."

I follow him out the door, but as soon as we are outside of the hall the sun suddenly grows dark, and I hear the call of a dreaded Nazgul interrupt the City murmur. All over people shriek and hide, and Boromir and I cover our ears as well. I see a lone figure walking toward me, and suddenly everyone else fades away, even my beloved older brother. It is my father approaching, once more, and he begins to scream over the shrieks of the Nazgul. He raises his hand, the ring glistening, and suddenly everything is covered in flame, and I am sweating, and he is withering before my eyes. "Ash!" someone is crying.

"Faramir!" a voice breaks through the fire and the ever-present shrieking, and I feel a kiss on my cheek. "Wake up!"

I open my eyes, but all I can see is the fire, filling the room. A ringed hand is placed on my cheek, and I jerk away, raising my own hand to shield myself from it.

"Faramir?" There is a tremble in the voice now, and slowly things begin to fade from the fiery hue to the pale light of dawn. I am lying on a bed, panting. The same hand is pressed on my arm, and I stare down at it, bewildered for a minute before realizing it is a woman's hand, and I am in my room in Ithilien with my wife.

"Eowyn?" I ask, lowering my hand, and I see her staring at me.

"Why do you shield yourself from me?" she asks, her brow knit. "You were dreaming, my love."

I take a shaky breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. Eowyn takes my hand in between hers. "Your hands are cold," she murmurs.

"I'm sorry," I say, closing my eyes. Eowyn comes closer.

"What happened?" she asks.

I swallow. "I dreamed I was with my father, and he was reprimanding me again. He...he struck me, with his hand. The one with the ring on it," I say as explanation. Eowyn stares at me, then presses her cheek against mine.

"Oh Faramir," she whispers, and I realize that she did not say it as if it were a curse, but rather as if it were sweet to the tongue. I clutch her to me, breathing in her hair and perfume.

"I'm sorry Eowyn," I say slowly. She stirs.

"You are sorry? Oh my beloved husband..." she kisses me softly, then wraps her arms around my trembling form. "Forget him, my love," she whispers. "He is gone. You need only think about us."

I nod, staring out the window into the pale light that is growing. It is true. He is gone, and I have a new life now. As I lean against the bedstead, my wife in my arms, I realize that I need never fear him again. And with that realization, a weight slips from my shoulders, and I drift slowly back to sleep, content.


End file.
